Hollow Holidays

Holding Space for Grief in a Season of Joy and Thanksgiving

Growing up, I loved celebrating Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Throw in my birthday between those three holidays, and I was set to end the year with a full heart and a smile on my face. Those months were the culmination of everything I cherished: family gatherings, good food, and stories that would echo through the years as we reminisced about our childhoods together.

Christmas, though, was always my favorite—as it is for most children. Maybe it was the sight of the tree glowing in the living room, or the countdown to the big day posted in every store window. Maybe it was the warmth of a mug of hot chocolate while snowflakes drifted outside, or waking up early to see the world blanketed in white. For most of my life, I never realized the holidays could be a difficult time for anyone.

After all, think about the movies, songs, and stories that fill this season. They’re almost always joyful, filled with laughter and love. In America, the stretch from Halloween to New Year’s is often considered the highlight of the year—a time of tradition, indulgence, and new beginnings marked by resolutions that rarely last beyond February.

But for many people, the holidays are the hardest time of year—us included. What was once the brightest season has become the heaviest.

I still enjoy the lights, the gatherings, the familiar scents of cinnamon and pine. But underneath it all, the celebrations feel hollow—haunted by a deep longing for the life we should have had.

If you’ve read my previous reflections, you’ll know that we lost both of our boys, Davian and Jadon, during the holiday months. Davian was born the day before Thanksgiving in 2021—some years, his birthday even falls on the holiday itself. Jadon was born just days after my own birthday, right before Christmas in 2023. Losing them, in two separate years, has made the holidays a season of grief threaded with memories that sting and soothe in equal measure.

I still remember the Thanksgiving after Davian’s birth. We were supposed to spend it at my family’s house, but instead, we were in the hospital, exhausted and heartbroken. My family—along with my sister’s—decided to bring Thanksgiving to us. We were discharged that morning, and when we arrived home, there they were: a warm meal waiting, a table set, and love surrounding us like a blanket.

There were no expectations. No forced smiles. No “say what you’re thankful for” moments. We ate together, laughed through tears, and held one another when words fell short. It remains, paradoxically, the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had—because even in our pain, we were held.

A month later, my wife’s family joined us for Christmas. It was the same kind of gathering: simple, quiet, and heavy with love. No pressure to perform joy, just presence.

When we lost Jadon, it wasn’t tied to a holiday, but it was close—just a few days after my birthday. That day had already been hard since losing Davian; losing Jadon so near to it deepened that ache. He was supposed to be our rainbow baby, the one who would bring color back into our lives. Instead, we faced another Christmas with two sons in heaven.

That year, one of the most meaningful gifts we received came from dear friends in Nebraska. They sent us three ornaments, each engraved with our sons’ footprints and names. When I opened the package, I wept. Just weeks earlier, we had said goodbye to Jadon, and our home still felt unbearably quiet. But holding those ornaments, I felt something shift.

For the first time since losing our boys, I felt seen. Their absence was still crushing, but those small tokens reminded me that love remains. They gave us something tangible to hold when our arms were empty, something sacred to hang on the tree where laughter should have been.

Now, each year as the holidays approach, I find myself torn between sorrow and gratitude. The memories of what was and what could have been still hurt—but within that ache, there’s also grace. Because grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t erase joy; it deepens it. It teaches us to cherish the quiet moments, to hold space for both laughter and tears at the same table.

So, when I see the lights go up and the first snow falls, I try to remember that love doesn’t end when life does. It changes form. It lingers—in ornaments, in stories, in the warmth of those who still gather with us.

The holidays may never feel the same, but maybe they’re not meant to. Maybe their purpose now is to remind us that even in the hollow places, light still finds a way through.